Long Pickup truck Poems
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As I view flat prairie with mountain range beyond, morning sunshine warms me
and I know by afternoon, fierce storms may gather without warning.
I envy not the urban dweller rushing to and fro amidst stark cement barriers.
Yes, small town life suits me…
I’ll not trade nights laying head on pillow as moonlight pierces the darkness
and coyotes cry to the far reaches like their ancestors before…No, never!
I could not, would not, give up the freedom found in these open spaces
where peaceful Amish plow behind horses harnessed in leather strap.
I proudly tell inquisitors, I met my husband dancing at the old grange hall,
then settled on the ranch his kin claimed and worked three generations back.
I feel safe, protected here among friends in this quaint little town.
Crime is not a factor—not a priority one deals with on a daily basis.
Trips to market bring no snarled traffic, no changing lights of red, yellow, green.
Welcome is felt, not heard from silent voices behind familiar smiling eyes.
On unpaved roads I return as dust fills nose and eyes, making me sneeze
but it’s joy rather than nuisance as I jog along in our old pickup truck.
Here the family is strong, unified—respect for elders required,
blending generations of those who tamed the land before us.
Sunday church services overflow with scrubbed and shining faces
as preachers spread harmony and warnings from the Good Book.
Camaraderie and sportsmanship are taught in this small town.
Proud parents gather in crowds to support their team at each and every event.
Discipline and morals form traditional characteristics of the region,
and authority is respected on all levels, patriotism honored.
Our children do not stray to the bright lights of the city
vandalizing, joining lost souls seeking acceptance on mean streets.
Early evening sounds of slumber echo thru’ thin walls of this old farmhouse
for morning chores greet our kids, us, in this game of sweet survival.
No, I do not envy city folks or opportunities I may have missed therein,
nor do I allow them to bring me scorn, or take pity on my soul.
I gain my worth from one greater, wiser, more forgiving than mere mortals…
I hear the voice of my Creator, and I follow where He leads.
In the colorful region of America where I was born and raised, the colors of the rainbow were the same as elsewhere, and they amazed us always.
The number of beautiful rainbow colors is said to be between five and seven. Scotty saw red, orange, and blue; green, yellow and indigo were seen by
Stephen. The American flag on a white pole also flew with stars and stripes of red, white, and blue. There was never the lack of colors, but the rain showers
and cool breezes were often overdue. Many winters brought us snowflakes that were clean, cold, eatable and white like all the rest. The magnolias were lively and stunning, and weeping willow trees were simply priceless. The colorful features of people were mostly shades of red, brown, black, and white. But there was something about the social ways and mores that wasn't quite right. The human psyche was consumed with complex ideas centered around color, it seemed.
Caterpillars and other earth moving equipment were orange. Combines, cotton pickers, and tractors were mostly red, but the John Deeres were all green. There were other vehicles that followed, but I shall never forget my father's blue pickup truck. Dad often took us riding all over the countryside, giving us another view of the mire and the muck. On most days the sun was bright and hot as fire, and by sunset, it cooled and turned reddish orange. But for miles and miles from spring through summer, there were green fields of coveted cotton.
Come Fall, those same green fields of cotton, whose leaves were caused to fall, turned white. And also by then, the fields were dominated by brown, as the bean, corn, hay, and wheat were harvested.
When I pause to reflect on bygone years, I recall that there was some dismay and people generally had their say. The skies were mostly blue and earth colors mostly green, but people were real with very few areas of gray.
08272018PoSoupContest, Colored Memories, Craig Cornish
Recollections of childhood
when life was simplistic,
brings to memory, days
filled of toilsome work
and long hours.
Yet in its own way, bestows
feelings of warmth, safety
and at given times, even
conceived to be glitzy,
shimmery.
Children, courteous
and respectful
executing daily chores
and in attendance
at church on
every given Sunday.
TV, computers,
I pods or CD's were
unheard of. Merely
an old Motorola radio
in a corner of the sitting
room. Kept perfectly
dustless and neat
for visitors.
Absolutely no children
were permitted,
with an exception
of Saturday eve, as all
gathered closely together,
listening to The Lone Ranger
and Silver....Hy Ho...Away!
Thursday nights
in summertime,
brought truckloads
of youngsters
piled in the bed of an
old green pickup truck, going
to enjoy a movie
on a large white
screen in the center
of a cornfield.
Christmas was, oh, so
special. Picking a
pine tree from a
million others to cut,
hauling “it”back
to a tattered
old gray shingled
farmhouse.
Decorations of popcorn
and cranberry strings, chains of
colored ribbon, paper cutouts
resembling bright, white
snowflakes, and of course,
a magical angel atop
this magnificent tree.
In retrospect,
it was felt we had so
little, but we had so
very, very much.
Children helped
with the chickens, cows,
gardening, whatever
instructed to do.
Riding ponies, the
county fair, marvelous fun.
School days were spent
learning the three R;s...readin,
ritin, rithmatic,” as well as
a history of George Washington
and the Great Depression of
1929,,,,,,,
Grandpa recounting stories
at the supper table of the
stock fall, unemployment,
farmers losing their worth,
wars of senseless deaths.
We were so blessed.
to have been born
after these arduous times.
Looking forward to a
new year, 2012--
Computers, I pods,
Cell Phones, Absolutely
Astonishing inventions,
technology.
Today stock-markets
are fluctuating, businesses
closing and many
people are going homeless
and hungry.
Jobs being at an all-time
low.....such advanced
progress,yet such similarity
of previous history.
“Old timers”
will survive from
what was
taught throughout
their childhood.
What happens now -
will we all survive?
around 2:30 in the AM one morning in the middle of
the midwest
upon leaving his office after studying for exams up until the
last moment
he decided to take an alternate route when walking back to his apartment---
a shorter street would bring him back quicker than
going the long way.
it begins with what most will perceive as “innocent” inquiry &
on the night in question
while making his way on the opposite side of the street,
a young man in his early twenties called out to him.
turning his head towards the left he noticed 5 white boys---
it is important to point out that they were in fact white
as african-american males are blamed at the outset by this country
whenever violence is mentioned in a news story & the race/ethnicity of
said attacker(s) is not stated from the very beginning.
there were two sitting in the back of a green pickup truck which
had no cap,
one was still in the cab at the wheel & two had made their way onto the
street,
approaching the man on his way home
who still was standing on the opposite side of the street.
one of the two on the street had asked the man walking a question, but
they’d done so with not much amplification,
so as to force anyone who would have been curious
to ask again---
so, the man walking asked & in doing so, he paused from walking and
faced the two walking casually towards him.
“hey, do you know where Melanie St. is?” said one of the 5 & the man
replied that he didn’t know, that he wasn’t from around there
(as he was a student, only living in this part of the country to further his education)---
the whole while noticing that the two who had been in the back of the pickup truck now
were slowly making their way around behind him,
with only one guy still at the wheel of the truck,
the man who had been walking home, undisturbed, now had four circling him.
the next comment or question offered by the man who asked where Melanie St. is
was never fully heard by the man who had been walking because at the moment it was
uttered
an uppercut to the chin came simultaneously,
and down the man went to the ground as the 4 swarmed him & began to punch him &
kick him relentlessly.
Two guys at the corner of Fifth and Grant,
were looking pretty far down on their luck.
Because their beat-up old station wagon,
just got T-boned by a Ford pickup truck.
The light was green for that station wagon,
but that truck just slammed right into their car.
After they all got out and walked about,
looked like that truck driver came from the bar.
That station wagon was a mangled mess,
one guy had some blood oozing from his head.
I said to myself, it could have been worse,
thank Heaven nobody’s bad hurt, or dead.
The cop showed up a few minutes later,
asked them what the heck was going on here.
The truck driver said, Billy Bob old friend,
those boys there smell like they was drinking beer.
The cop hemmed and hawed then cleared his throat,
he said you know it looks perfectly clear.
I see what you’re saying is true, Judge Brown,
these boys will be locked up for fifty years.
So, they hauled those guys to the county jail,
told them that they don’t need any phone call.
Cause if they want to get out of this mess,
the best thing was to confess to it all.
The sheriff wrote it all out on paper,
said that it was going to be all right.
He told them, sign your name here on this line,
then you might be out by tomorrow night.
The next morning, they went to the courtroom,
their lawyer was the judge’s son-in-law.
Billy Bob showed the judge their confession,
the biggest case this county ever saw.
There was murder, rape, theft, and robbery,
with a whole lot of other crimes thrown in.
Every unsolved case the sheriff had faced,
was listed in the charges against them.
The judge slammed his gavel on the desktop,
said haul these boys off to the calaboose.
What say we go down and have a few rounds,
cause this one calls for a couple of brews.
Now ain’t that just the way life seems to go,
some days it don’t pay to get out of bed.
You’ll be cruising along, singing your song,
with the warm sun shining down on your head.
Then the day starts to turn cold and dreary,
though that is not what the weatherman said.
Some dirty bird flies by and drops his pie,
now your day has turned all nasty instead.
I've been doing my current job for 32 years; lots of travel, places and people. A few memories stick out; my own Book of Hours, it would be almost one per year.
The first job I was on was Four Corners Power Plant, near Farmington, New Mexico, on Navajo Nation land, where the turbines brought electricity to the people, and the smokestacks brought death to the indigo plants in the area. Shiprock, the volcanic mountain, stands to the west. I was working the nightshift, and one day went to see it. After sleeping in the morning, I drove west along US Highway 64, toward the mountain. On the way, I passed a slower moving vehicle, a red pickup truck with lots of people in it, four in the cab, five or six sitting in the back. Locals, Native Americans, Navajos.
The mountain was superb in shadowed relief as the afternoon sun went lower. I got good pictures in the clear air, under nothing but blue sky. At 8 p.m. I'd have to be back in to work, so the time came to return east toward the hotel. After a few miles there were flashing lights in the distance; as I got closer I saw they were Navajo Tribal Police vehicles.
There had been an accident - the pickup truck I had passed had run off the road. It was where the highway went through a cut in the hills, red rock walls rising on either side, red sand and dust below. Bodies wrapped in white sheets, out of place against the red; blindingly white, impossibly white, shouldn't be.
I drove past the scene very slowly, and now I don't know if the three Navajo Police officers were moving or not. I see them standing stone still, burdened, slightly bent over, heads looking at the ground, with that big, beautiful blue sky above them. Shock and sadness stepping down from above, grief being born. Navajos are quiet mourners, and I wonder if in the great cycle of all things, of which death is a part, the spirits were then walking away, softly, across their hearts. Law enforcement is no stranger to traffic accidents, and tragic loss of life is sometimes seen, but this was more - this was their people.
As the sun peaks up into the sky
the blue pickup truck goes down the dusty road
to the field that barren laid
and the red tractor waiting there
father and son in blue jeans clad
walked from the truck across the land
to the job are waiting for them there
to begin a new as such in every year
so big the wheels with cleats deep
red painted steel and rubber so black
the scent of grease and of used oil
and dust that tickled and teased the nose
black painted seat with flecks of rust
up so high to be rode
so many petals and levers there
hard black rubber wheel oh so wide
father climbs up and takes his seat
reaches down and lifts up his son
setting him down upon his knee
reaches down and turns the key
a lever is moved a throttle to set
the choke pulled out to just right there
a round pedal then depressed
and with a grind the engine starts
moving levers the plow is raised
with hiss of hydraulics and squeaks of steel
depress the clutch and shift into gear
increase the throttle and ease off the clutch
and with a lurch the tractor moves
heading out into the field
the father steers the boy watches
as they move to where to begin
stopping there lowering the plow
the father says he’ll do the first
then coming back he’ll let his son
plow furrows in the field
back and forth in the rising sun
the scent of soil freshly turned
birds that land where they had been
seeking the worms now exposed
and at noon they take a break
for tuna sandwiches and paper wrapped
a big thermos of still cold milk
and for apples fresh and red
working on in light of sun
through the day both long and hot
till the sun touches again the land
at end of day before work is done
leaving the tractor in the field
walking back into their truck
the first of many days are now done
as they get in and drive away
another day for father and son
as they work in light of sun
sharing together the joy of the land
and the working of it which is their life’s
There are places that I have got to go.
I’ve got my tunes cranked on the radio
Playing “Wild Thing” while the kids all sing along.
It may not be a “Magic Carpet Ride”
But it will comfortably seat eight inside.
Well, to heck with what the culture says, I am right where I belong…
I’m the epitome of the macho man!
Got my kids strapped into the mini-van.
All those soccer moms ain’t got a thing on me.
Got it in control. Going just as planned.
Me and my kids in the mini-van.
Gonna hit the park and then get some groceries.
Just a rebel on the open road, that’s me.
There are times we just want to explode.
Got a craving for that open road.
I guess rebellion’s in my bones and in my blood.
I got my “Good Vibrations” going on.
With the windows down it’s all “Fun, Fun, Fun”
And with the stroller and the diaper bag I just look like such a stud…
You can’t put the top down, but that’s all right by me.
I’m just glad to share the ride with my growing family.
I’ll never win a drag race but I don’t really mind.
It gets us where we’re going. We can leave our cares behind…
There are shallow fools that laugh and mock
But the kids all tell me, “Dad, you rock!”
As we carefully observe all the traffic rules.
It’s no motorbike, it’s no pickup truck.
Doesn’t make my ego run amok.
And we laugh at those who look down their nose for we know that we are cool…
Well, I got some news from the lovely wife.
Another little change in my “rebel” life.
Some might disagree, but I think it’s really neat.
So, I pack the kids up and strap them all in.
And we head on down the road again
To the retail store for the coming “one more”! We need a brand new baby seat…
I’m the epitome of the macho man!
Got my kids strapped into the mini-van.
All those soccer moms ain’t got a thing on me.
Got it in control. Going just as planned.
Me and my kids in the mini-van.
Gonna hit the park and then get some groceries.
Just a rebel on the open road, that’s me.
He grew one of them bushy mustaches
like Sam Elliot wears under his nose
Bought him some fancy duds from Cabela's
sure looked spiffy in his Buckaroo clothes
Alligator skin boots and silver spurs
thought he looked like all them real cowboys did
Added chaps and ten gallon Stetson hat
and called himself the Kansas City Kid
He'd got him a Palomino horse that
he didn't have a darn clue how to ride
And a beat up old red Ford pickup truck
with a blue eyed dog to be by his side
He packed up and headed to Montana
from his home in the woods of Missouri
Said he was fixin’ to be a cowboy
and the best anyone would ever see
He rattled that old truck to Montana
it conked out right there in front of the ranch
He said he wanted to learn to cowboy
if the boss seen fit to give him a chance
Well the boss brought him out to the bunkhouse
told all us cowboys that his name was Tim
Said he wants to be a cowboy you see
so show him the ropes and take care of him
I asked him what he knew about branding
could he stick an iron to a cow's rump
He said he would probably be alright
if I'd be kind enough to show him once
Well can you at least ride that horse of yours
to cut out a heifer or throw your rope
That boy looked at me straight into my eyes
gave me a slight grin then shook his head "nope"
Think you might be able to break a bronc
that has spent its whole life out running wild
“Well I was in a real mean sheep bustin’
back in Missouri when I was a child”
What about fixin’ up supper vittles
I might be able to use me a cook
"Pretty sure I can do a decent meal
as long as I have some kinda cookbook"
Well I got me these here bulls need cutting
and a short stretch of fence that you could mend
Can't be that hard to cut a bull he says
if you would just show me how to begin
That was twenty years ago boss hired Tim
cause there was something in him he could see
Tim spent all that time learning to cowboy
and became the best there would ever be
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.